


Truth Part 9

by The_Word_Witch



Series: Truth [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Fluff, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23515918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Word_Witch/pseuds/The_Word_Witch
Summary: Request:What’s up sug! sorry you’re struggling right now but I’ve come to help you If you could bring this to light for me I’d absolutely love for YOU TO DO JT So basically Bucky X Enhanced reader who are fuckin enemies. Hate each other to every last fiber of their beings bc Bucky is rude and she calls him out on it. AnywHs, they get drunk, truth or dare (go crZy baby) and LOTS LF dirty talk if u wanna do smut but if u don’t then buck taking care of her while she’s drunk cause she admitted her feelingsPairing: Bucky X Reader (Enhanced)Summary:Since The Avengers gave you a home the only blight has been Bucky Barnes, a ghost from your past that you can’t seem to shake. It makes you hate him. The feeling, it seems, is mutual. But maybe things aren’t quite as simple as they seem. (Post Winter Soldier AU)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Series: Truth [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1214106
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	Truth Part 9

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: NOTHING BUT FEELS FLUFFY FEELS
> 
> A/N: Like the warning says. We are cozy and soft with these two this week. Hope you’re enjoying it. 
> 
> [This was originally posted to my Tumblr last year. Trying to update Ao3 with everything now!]

The sun is setting when your eyes open. Bucky lies on his stomach next to you, breathing steadily. You don’t want to wake him but you can’t help yourself. Gently you trace the arch of one of his dark brows.

Thankfully he doesn’t wake. For a few minutes you just kind of stare at him in awe, a feeling of warmth growing in your belly. You can’t quite name it, this certain breed of peace and comfort but… you like it.

Suddenly, you’re pulled from your gawking when you realize you just how thirsty you are. Slowly, you slide out of the bed. Slipping back into the boxers and hoodie, you sneak out of the room.

You down a bottle of water in about 30 seconds and crack open another, sipping it slowly. Looking around the kitchen you note the little pieces of personalization scattered around. A pithy dishtowel on the oven, the mismatched collection of dishes in the cabinets, some silly magnets on the fridge. It’s endearing and makes your place look stoic and sterile by comparison. 

To the left of the kitchen is a little office and you wander in. A plush rug covers the stained concrete floor. The wall across from the door is pure windows with a view of the city. Reds and oranges blaze brightly over Manhattan and while there’s a similar view from your own place, it’s still breathtaking. A desk sits up against the window with one of those big comfy desk chairs pushed up to it with a blanket draped over the back. This place oozes warmth and comfort. Very Bucky. 

The wall to the right is stuffed floor to ceiling with books. Damn near every best seller in the last century is here along with poetry, history, prose, fiction, and non. Some look new, some well worn and you wonder if he got them used. There’s even a scented candle tucked into one shelf. Leather and tobacco, it actually smells incredible.

Across from the bookcase the wall is covered in photos. After a second you realize… these are _his_ photos. A slightly younger version of Bucky smiles that stunning smile with his arm draped across the shoulders of a smaller boy… of… Steve. You stare for a minute trying to find your 6’ 2” friend in the features of this slight person. He’s there, in the thoughtful eyes and crooked smile.

Your eyes wander to the left. Bucky stands with three young girls, all in Sunday best attire, smiling posed smiles. They have the same thick dark hair and you wonder if they’re related. A woman with a vibrant smile, so much like his, standing in a kitchen. Your lips pull up at a photo of Bucky with three men, all in some kind of military garb, cigarettes in their mouths smiling; WWII you suspect.

A little farther down your heart constricts. Bucky, in full-Service Uniform, posed for his photo, smiling. He looks so much like the man sleeping in the other room and yet… different. That’s when you notice the shadow box filled with damn near every military honor that can be granted to a fallen soldier and the flag. It’s folded in that recognizable triangle, the little plaque with his name, James Buchanan Barnes, rank, date of birth and… death.

“Steve thinks it’s morbid to keep it,” his voice cuts through the silence like a knife and you jump, a touch of power pulsing under your skin.

“Jesus,” you gasp laughing a little.

“Sorry,” he’s holding up his hands, a little grin playing at the edges of his lips.

“No,” you shake your head, “I’m sorry, I kind of invaded your space.” Bucky takes a few steps forward hands resting on your hips pulling you to him. His expression is soft, still sleepy.

“You’re not invading,” his eyes search yours, “I’ve got nothing to hide from you.”

His words nearly suck the breath from your lungs. For two people who lived a normal life this likely would have been a passing thing but for two who had spent decades of their lives in the clutches of Hydra… these words speak volumes.

Your right-hand curls around the back of his neck and you pull him to you. The kiss is soft, not hungry or desperate. When you break away he buries his nose in your hair for a second before taking a deep breath.

“Did you get enough sleep?”

He snorts a little laugh, pulling away a touch, “Never.” Metal fingers caress the side of your face, “I noticed you were gone, just wanted to make sure you were ok.” Worry flashes in his eyes and you melt a little.

“I’m great,” you hold up the water bottle still in your left hand, “just parched.”

Turning back to the wall leaning into him you can’t help but wonder, “How did you get all these?”

His arms wrap tight around your torso, pressing you flat against him, “After Steve and I… well… died so to speak, our personal effects went to my family. Steve didn’t have anyone left.” You can relate.

“My youngest sister,” he points to the picture of him with the girls, “Jo. She has a son who’s still alive, Eric. He inherited it all and when they found Steve, S.H.I.E.L.D. contacted him.”

Your eyes scan the wall, taking in all these pieces of him. A past and a family you’ll never know or really understand. “You still have family…”

“In a way, yeah.” His right fingers tangle with your own, “It’s… strange.”

“But, Bucky,” you turn to face him, “that’s amazing. I mean… I’d be happy to still have…” Anyone, but you don’t say it.

His eyes study the photos behind you, his mouth a hard line, “It doesn’t feel like mine.” When his eyes meet yours, they’re stormy, “Not anymore.” He takes a shaky breath, “But I feel lucky that they kept this stuff for me and Steve’s sake. Eric even gave me some albums.”

He pulls away and walks to the bookcase. One by one he takes four old photo albums from the bottom shelf and sets them on the desk. They’re all clearly from different eras.

“This is one my Ma,” his voice cracks as he opens the oldest one. You set your bottle down and wrap an arm around his waist.

“You don’t have to show me,” your eyes look up at him, cheek pressed to his left shoulder.

“I want to,” his smile is melancholy but there’s light in his eyes when he looks at you.

Clearing his throat he flips to the first page, “My Ma had one of these for each of us kids. She kept everything.” There’s clippings, notes, drawings, a few photos. Some things are carefully paced while others are held in with rusted paperclips. You notice it’s not just Bucky here but Steve too.

“Your mom must’ve liked Steve,” you laugh.

“Like he was her own,” Bucky nods pointing to a photo of her beaming with Steve in Captain America garb. You reach out and flip closer to the front. A gangly boy with shaggy dark hair and a megawatt smile holds a woman’s hand. It’s adorable.

“Is this you?”

“Mhm,” he plucks it from the worn corner pieces that hold it to the page. “James, 1924, so I was about 7 here.”

“May I?” You reach for it and he hands you the old square photo. He’s there in that smile, the way the nose scrunches. “You were so cute, James,” playfully you pinch his cheek.

Bucky pulls back laughing, “Oh god, please don’t call me James,” he groans snatching the picture from you.

“Who started calling you, Bucky?”

He shrugs, “My parents always called me, Bucky.”

You look back to the wall, to the photo of the woman in the kitchen, “So, is this your mom?”

“Yeah, in ’55 I think.” So after she lost him.

“You look like her.”

The look on his face is so tender, “Really? I think I look like my Pa actually.” He flips through the album and points to a picture of a teenaged him and a hard-looking man. The man’s beard is full, tiny tufts of grey by the chin like Bucky’s. Other than that though you don’t see it.

“Nah,” you look up at him, touching the soft laugh lines by his eyes. “You’ve got a face for smiling, like hers.”

[Bucky]

There’s no way for you to know what those words mean to him. He can’t say he agrees. His Ma was the kindest person he ever knew… He can’t see that in himself. It’s a nice sentiment though.

“I sit in here a lot… looking at everything.” He sighs heavily, “Still trying to get it all… all of me, back.”

It had only been a little over a year. The team’s medical staff was shocked at what he managed to recover given the time he had been with Hydra. He felt like most of it was back but there were still little things he’d suddenly remember, or a story Steve would tell him and he’d realize that there were still parts of him missing.

Your brows knit, “Yeah, I get that…” You turn back to the wall of his memories. He sees the tension in your shoulders, the way you try to stand straighter, hold you head higher, anything to steel yourself against whatever it is you’re feeling.

Worry settles like a stone in his gut. He doesn’t know much about your past before Hydra. All he really knew when they were about to go after you was that you, like him, hadn’t been a willing participant and that according to Fury your father was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. He reaches out and gently takes your left hand in his right, he can feel a slight tremor passing through you. Your eyes lock onto his and he smiles.

“Who’re these guys,” you point to the picture of him with the Howlers.

“The Howling Commandos,” a touch of sadness squeezes his heart. “Mine and Steve’s unit in the war.”

“Tell me about them.”

A little laugh trips over his lips and he looks at you questioningly. “You really want to hear war stories from an old man?”

The smile you give him takes his breath away, “I really do.”

-

A few hours later the two of you have built a nest in the small office. Couch cushions, pillows, every blanket in the place all culminating into a soft warm pile up against the wall. It’s not that the apartment is overly large but there’s something about being in this small space that seems to comfort both of you.

There’s a stack of pizza boxes, you’ve both torn through two large pies already with little signs of slowing down. Photos and other bits of memorabilia are scattered all around like pieces of a puzzle. Bucky brought his record player in, along with his boxes of records.

He’s surprised how much he’s enjoyed talking about his past. Telling you these stories is different than reminiscing with Steve or the forced shared moments with his therapist. He wants to give you these parts of him. You can’t help but be endlessly amused about stories of Steve before the serum when he was just a scrappy punk with more bark than bite. And the picture he paints of Brooklyn and New York in the early 19th century fascinates you.

Glen Miller is playing right now, the sound of the brass sending him back almost a century. He loved to dance to this music once. You’re nibbling a slice kneeling in front of one of the boxes of records. You bob along to the music as you flip through to select the next one. A small noise comes from you as your hand freezes over a battered orange album cover.

“Sinatra got big after my time but damn if he doesn’t have a great set of pipes.” You don’t respond, just stare. Faint tendrils of light swirl under your skin, the air in the room getting a touch cooler.

“Doll?” He leans over resting his right hand gently on your shoulder. Your mouth is open just a touch and tears glitter in your eyes. “Hey,” he plucks the slice from your hand, laying it inside the open box.

You snap back shaking your head, “Sorry. I, uh…” You slide Sinatra’s _Songs For Swingin’ Lovers_ out of the box, holding it in both trembling hands. “This… this was my Dad’s favorite. Well one of them. He loved Sinatra…” A tear slides down your cheek, Bucky brushes it away. “I… I would groan every time he put it on but… secretly I loved it too.” A few more tears sneak out but you briskly wipe them away sniffing hard.

“Let’s put it on,” he says softly. You bite your bottom lip hard, not making eye contact and nod. He takes the record from you and stands up walking the short distance to the desk to change the record.

The first song, _You Make Me Feel So Young,_ seems strangely poignant. You were younger than him, hell he was old enough to be your father. But neither of you looked close to your true age. You looked it, sure. Inside though… As Frank croons the first line he turns to you, your chin resting on your knees, staring out into space.

Bucky heads back to your nest. He sits with his back against the wall, holding his arms open, “Come here.” You look back and crawl over, settling between his legs, pulling a blanket from the pile wrapping the two of you in warmth. The feeling of you pressed against him, in his arms, is damn near too good.

After a few songs, you lean your head back onto his left shoulder, looking up at him, “Do you like to dance?”

“I used to,” his eyes wander to where your hands connect, “I loved dancing.” Suddenly you’re up and out of his arms.

“Dance with me,” you’re holding out a hand smiling bright.

“Seriously?” He looks around the crowded space, “In here?”

“Yeah,” you move by the door, “there’s enough room. Come on.” You wave him over. Laughing he shakes his head and follows your orders.

You take his hands, “Wait, not this one.” The opening notes of _I’ve Got You Under My Skin_ start. “Now.” Effortlessly you two fall into a tight foxtrot, giggling as you bump into things or stumble over the steps a bit.

Near the end, Bucky spins you, unintentionally, straight toward the blanket nest. You lose your footing and both of you tumble down, laughing.

“Color me surprised,” he leans up on his left elbow looking down at you, laying on your back giggling.

“Why’s that?”

“I didn’t expect you to know that dance.”

“I will have you know I am an excellent dancer,” you laugh mirroring his position.

“Yeah falling down demonstrated that perfectly,” he teases.

“Hey!” You toss a small pillow at his face, “I wouldn’t have fallen if my _partner_ didn’t spin me toward disaster.” He laughs.

You shake your head, “I swear I can almost hear my Mom scolding my form,” your accent turns softly germanic, “‘Well liebling if you were paying attention to your feet…’”

“Was your Mom German?”

“Austrian,” you sigh and fall to your back, “and I was going to be her perfect little All American Girl. Dancing, sports, music, academics, I had to be the best. Always.” You turn your head to him, “ _So_ , any dance you throw my way. I guarantee I can kill it.”

“Maybe I’ll put that to the test.” He does like the idea of dancing, dancing like he used to, with you.

You spend the rest of the evening listening to music. He tells you more stories from his life, even remembering details he had forgotten. Eventually, you drift off in his arms, snuggled in the little blanket nest.

For a moment he thinks of carrying you to the bed but it’s comfortable and warm here. He feels… safe he realizes. Happy even. Instead, he buries his nose in your hair and follows you into sleep.


End file.
